


To Rest My Weary Soul

by iamtheenemy (Steph)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I Just Want Them To Nap Together Ok?, Id Fic, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Touch-Starved, so many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 15:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19402825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steph/pseuds/iamtheenemy
Summary: “Are you saying I feel like this because of my time in Hell? I thought you meantmoralconsequences.”“Since when do I give a toss about moral consequences, angel? No, you’ve got a Hell hangover. Must have hit once the adrenaline wore off,” Crowley answered.“Hell hangover?” Aziraphale repeated incredulously.Aziraphale's trip down to Hell leaves him worse for wear.





	To Rest My Weary Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [疲倦的靈魂因你而安息](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20748476) by [bdondon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bdondon/pseuds/bdondon)



> I don't even know what this fandom is doing to me anymore. So many sappy, fluffy feelings. Send help!

Descending into Hell hurt more than Aziraphale thought it would, which was a bit shortsighted, in retrospect. The trip to Heaven just made his ears pop, but Hell was another matter entirely. He supposed that was rather the point.

As he was dragged down into the pit by Dagon and Hastur, he kept reminding himself to be Crowley. Showing any uncharacteristic reaction to the pervasive feelings of overwhelming despair and hatred that seemed to want to swallow him up would give the whole game away.

So instead, Aziraphale distracted himself by focusing on sauntering and inventing sarcastic little, Crowley-like quips to throw at the hissing and jeering demons that surrounded him on his march to meet Beezlebub. 

“Hey you, I don’t remember your name, but you might want to consider a haircut,” he remarked in his best attempt at Crowley’s unconcerned drawl. It was true, on both counts. That particular demon _could_ use a haircut - if hair was what you wanted to call whatever was writhing on the top of their head. But moreover, the two of them _had_ met once, on the battlefield, and Aziraphale really couldn’t recall their name. Something with an F, maybe? It was a long time ago.

By the time he arrived to face judgment, he was running on full bravado and hoping beyond hope that he could somehow fool the darkest forces of Hell using only a lifetime’s worth of knowing Crowley and two years’ worth of performing with Think Fast!, a West End improv troupe which sadly disbanded in 2002 after their leader, Barbara, received a mysterious new job opportunity in Cardiff.

Turns out, he could.

All in all, grateful though he was, it made for a pretty compelling argument against the competency of those in charge. 

* 

Afterwards, when the world didn’t end and Aziraphale didn’t get burned up in a raging hellfire inferno, he and Crowley had lunch at the Ritz. 

It was a lovely meal. Every meal at the Ritz was lovely, even if some needed to be nudged into loveliness with a bit of an ethereal touch. 

Halfway through his exceptional Cornish turbot and Crowley’s exceptional company, something in the champagne seemed to hit him in a way it never had before.

“Oh my,” he said, putting down his fork and rubbing his throbbing head.

Crowley frowned at him. “Are you all right, angel?”

“I think I’m a bit drunk already,” he admitted sheepishly, forcing a smile to reassure his friend. “I’ll fix it.” He closed his eyes to will away his discomfort and found that he couldn’t. And while he was focusing on it, he realized it wasn’t only his head that hurt. It was a bone deep ache that started in his head, yes, but then just didn’t stop. It travelled across his neck and shoulders, into his back, and down even further, making his legs feel like lead. Even his feet hurt. 

Aziraphale, who, in six thousand years, had never had so much as a stubbed toe that he couldn’t miracle away, was quite alarmed.

He opened his eyes and looked down at his hands bunched into tight fists on the table. His _fingers_ hurt. He didn’t even know that was possible. 

“I can’t seem to make it stop,” he remarked, flexing his sore fingers and not liking one bit the way it made the skin stretch painfully. “It must be this new body that Adam conjured up for me. He got something wrong. Everything _hurts_. Isn’t that strange?”

He looked up expecting to see Crowley as perplexed as he was, but instead the demon had a knowing expression on his face. 

“I thought this might happen,” he said. “It’s got nothing to do with your body.”

“What then?” Aziraphale asked. 

“I told you it wasn’t safe to go Down There,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Are we to have this argument again, right now? I thought you agreed that it was the only way to stop - “

“But didn’t I say there would be consequences if you did?” Crowley interrupted. “I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise, twittering on about prophecies and witches.”

“Well, I was right, wasn’t I?” he asked. Then what Crowley was implying began to sink in. “Are you saying I feel like this because of my time in Hell? I thought you meant _moral_ consequences.”

“Since when do I give a toss about moral consequences, angel? No, you’ve got a Hell hangover. Must have hit once the adrenaline wore off,” Crowley answered.

“ _Hell hangover_?” Aziraphale repeated incredulously. 

“That’s what I call it,” Crowley said. Then his expression softened, probably at the pain that Aziraphale knew must have been written all over his face. “You won’t be able to miracle it away, I’m afraid.”

“What’s causing it?” Aziraphale asked. He felt himself begin drifting down in his chair. He listed dangerously to one side, but Crowley reached out to right him.

“Whoa, whoa. There we go,” he said, both hands clutching Aziraphale’s shoulders securely. The touch was oddly soothing, and Aziraphale closed his eyes and tried to focus on only that. “It’s bad for humans, of course,” Crowley continued, “but worse for angels. You lot are made out of love, and there’s no love to be found in Hell. Be happy you were only there a few hours. The longer you stay, the worse it gets. Like Superman being away from the sun.”

Aziraphale looked over at him in confusion, and Crowley snorted. “Should have known you wouldn’t understand that reference.”

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale said. Indignation pulled on his last reserve of energy and he sat up with a groan and a hard twinge in his back. Crowley’s hands dropped away from his shoulders. “I’ll have you know that I am well-versed in the theory of the superman. Moreso than you, I’d wager.” 

Crowley gave him an indulgent half-smile and gestured for him to continue. “Go on then. Let’s hear it.”

“I happen to have a first edition copy of _Also sprach Zarathustra_ back at my bookshop that’s signed by Friedrich Nietzsche himself. And I can tell you that the translation of _Übermensch_ to ‘superman’ is a common, but grossly inaccurate representation of the meaning of the word,” he finished triumphantly.

“Well. You showed me,” Crowley said, still wearing that same grin.

“Just so,” Aziraphale said. “Though I don’t understand what the sun has got to do with anything.”

“I’ll explain some other time,” Crowley said.

With a wince, Aziraphale arched his back and then carefully repositioned his coat and tightened his bow tie, gathering himself. 

“I’m sure this is nothing that can’t be fixed with a good book and a nice cup of tea,” he declared.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Aziraphale, all the Earl Grey and Nietzsche in the world won’t help you with this.”

“As if I’d read Nietzsche to relax!” Aziraphale huffed. 

“It’ll pass eventually,” Crowley replied, ignoring Aziraphale’s outburst. “Like I said, you were only there a few hours. Probably didn’t give the dread and emptiness enough time to really soak in.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley and thought about how he knew that, how it must have felt for him when he’d first Fallen. “My dear,” he said, his heart full of sympathy.

Crowley rolled his eyes and glanced away. “You get used to it,” he muttered.

It was clear Crowley didn’t want to discuss it, and so Aziraphale took a deep breath and changed the subject. “Well, what will you do now that this is all over?” he asked.

“I just saved the world from Armageddon. I’m going to do what any sane person would after that. I’m taking a nap,” Crowley replied.

“Oh,” Aziraphale answered faintly, remembering his loneliness in the 19th century without the demon’s company the last time he’d taken one of those. “Well, you’ve earned it. See you in a few decades then, I suppose. I’ll wake you up if things start to get tetchy again.”

Crowley eyed him for a moment before shaking his head. “Just a normal nap this time. Wouldn’t do to be gone that long, just in case.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale repeated, going lightheaded in his relief. With the headache already pounding at his temples, the added rush of sensation did him no great favours. He bit back a groan.

“You know, come to think of it, some sleep would do you wonders too,” Crowley added. 

Aziraphale shook his head. “I don’t sleep,” he answered truthfully. “Never could see the appeal.”

“You love human pleasures,” Crowley argued. “Trust me, angel, there’s no dessert on the planet more decadent than a nice, long rest.”

“I can scarcely see how taking your body offline could be considered ‘decadent,’” Aziraphale said. 

“It’s not the actual sleeping bit. It’s the way you feel before and after,” Crowley explained. “Come on, someone must have written about the joys of napping in one of those books of yours. And I can tell you from experience that it’ll help you recover.”

Aziraphale hummed in thought. At the moment it seemed as though he would need Crowley’s assistance just getting out of the restaurant. His head felt too heavy for his neck. A sharp, stabbing pain pierced his lungs with every laboured breath he suddenly needed to take. He had lungs. He’d known that objectively before, of course, but had never given it much thought until that moment.

“I don’t even have a bed,” he said. And if he attempted to miracle one in this state, he was as likely to end up with a canoe waiting for him at home as he was a bed.

“Come back to my place again,” Crowley said, as easily as he had the night they saved the world. 

“Sleep in your bed?” Aziraphale asked, and ah, the thing his heart was doing now was in no way helping matters either. “With you?”

“I’m a world class sleeper, me. Gold medalist. Nap champ - oh, I like that,” Crowley said. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale answered without hesitation. If there was one thing in the world Aziraphale knew for certain, it was that. “All right then.”

Crowley took care of the check, and without Aziraphale needing to ask, offered his arm to help Aziraphale stand up. 

“Good lord,” Aziraphale grumbled as the whole world seemed to spin. He gratefully allowed Crowley to lead him out of the restaurant. Usually the demon ran cold, but today it was Aziraphale who was shivering while Crowley was a bright, soothing warmth beside him. He tried to burrow closer inconspicuously, and Crowley didn’t comment. 

“You’re so warm,” he said wonderingly.

Crowley looked at him and then shifted his eyes away. “You’re just freezing,” he replied.

They made their way past the concerned-looking waiter. “Too much champagne,” Crowley explained as Aziraphale offered him a halfhearted wave. “Can’t take him anywhere.”

“Will he be ok?” the waiter asked.

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale assured him. “I’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time. Just tickety-boo.”

“You’ve got to stop saying that,” Crowley told him as they made their way outside and to the waiting Bentley. “It makes you sound like an old relic.”

“I...oh...I am an old relic,” Aziraphale argued. “The oldest, in fact. And so are you.”

“At least I have the good sense not to act like it,” Crowley said.

As he was shuffling into the car, Aziraphale saw a woman across the street carrying three over-stuffed bags of groceries that were about to tip over. On instinct, he sent a miracle her way and winced when all the bags toppled to the ground.

Crowley rolled his eyes and flicked his hand disinterestedly towards the woman. A handsome man came to help her gather all her things. She discovered that, miraculously, none of her eggs had broken or her apples rolled away. And for good measure, Aziraphale would bet that when she got home, she’d find a tenner at the bottom of her purse that hadn’t been there earlier.

“Maybe hold off on the miracles until you’re feeling better,” Crowley said dryly as they both got in the car.

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea,” Aziraphale agreed. “That was quite nice of you, by the way.”

Crowley started the car and it took off with a squeal of tyres that sounded very much like the demon making a point.

“What have I told you about saying that?” he asked.

Drooping into his seat, and too worn down to even worry about Crowley’s driving, Aziraphale answered, “I feel too awful right now to stop myself from saying you’re lovely if you’re going to insist on being lovely. I’ll go back to lying about it again tomorrow, I promise.”

Crowley jerked his head to stare at Aziraphale, who could only imagine what he must have looked like. It had to have been quite pathetic, because, instead of responding, Crowley reached a hand out and gripped Aziraphale’s shoulder tightly.

The warmth of his touch once again seemed to seep down into Aziraphale’s bones, and abandoning all shame, he tilted his head until his cheek laid on top of it. They stayed that way in silence until they reached Crowley’s flat.

*

Crowley lead them through his flat, past that interesting statue and the verdant garden, the flat screen TV, all the way back to his bedroom. He was bearing so much of Aziraphale’s weight that he could have been carrying him, if not for Aziraphale’s pride.

The bedroom, as with all the other rooms in Crowley’s flat, was sparsely decorated, with the bed and a single, empty nightstand the only pieces of furniture in it. Along the far wall were huge picture windows to let in the light from outside.

Aziraphale gravitated to one side of the bed while Crowley went around to the other. Aziraphale had to admit that the wide fluffy pillows and thick duvet looked extremely enticing.

“So,” he said. “How do we do this?”

“Not dressed like that.” Crowley gestured at him. “Lose the shoes, the coat, the vest, and the bow tie.”

Aziraphale did as he was told, carefully removing the items for the first time since he’d been Warlock’s friendly gardener. He draped the coat, vest, and bow tie on the empty nightstand and toed off his shoes. When he turned back, Crowley was already out of his usual attire, including the glasses, and dressed in a black t-shirt and black silk pyjama pants.

Aziraphale looked down at his own white dress shirt and cream coloured slacks and wondered if he should do something similar. Crowley took the choice away from him by snapping his fingers and transforming his clothes into the same thing, but...softer. Aziraphale rubbed the fabric on his thigh. 

“Is this flannel?” he asked.

Crowley nodded. “It’s what humans wear to sleep.” 

“Thank you, dear.”

Crowley didn’t respond. Instead he pulled down his side of the covers and got in the bed. Aziraphale did the same, slowly levering himself onto the mattress and under the blankets. He laid on his back and sighed at the feeling of the thick, luxurious sheets cocooning him in warmth. 

“Oh, I like this,” Aziraphale decided at once.

“I told you. Decadence,” Crowley answered smugly. “Now shift onto your stomach.”

Aziraphale frowned. “What? Why?” 

“Because you’re a stomach sleeper if I’ve ever seen one,” Crowley said. “Come on. I thought you said you were going to trust me.”

“All right.” With the last of his strength, Aziraphale got his legs under him and flipped over so that he was on his belly. He turned his head so that he could look at Crowley and found his friend lying on his side, facing Aziraphale with his elbow propped on the bed and his cheek resting on his fist. 

With another snap of his fingers the lights turned off and the room went dark, despite the fact that it was the middle of the afternoon. All that Aziraphale could see was the glowing gold of Crowley’s eyes staring down at him. 

The darkness made it seem all a bit more intimate, and so Aziraphale found himself whispering when he asked, “What next? Just close my eyes and hope for the best?”

If he was honest, it might be nice to rest his eyes for a little while. There was a heaviness behind them that Aziraphale had never experienced before. 

“Hmm, maybe in a bit,” Crowley replied just as quietly. 

He shifted under the covers, and a moment later, Aziraphale felt a hand on the back of his neck. He started at the unexpected sensation, but then couldn’t help but sigh when the hand stroked from his neck, down his back, and stopped at the waistband of his pyjamas. Even under the cozy blankets, Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s hand like a warm compress, loosening his tense muscles with its slow and steady rhythm. 

Since Crowley initiated this on his own, Aziraphale reasoned, surely he wouldn’t mind him scooting a bit closer. There was nothing subtle about the way that Aziraphale wiggled over, like a fish caught on dry land. Crowley made no comment, only used his hand as a firm brace on Aziraphale’s back to help him move. Once he was comfortable, Crowley continued to rub his back down the same hypnotizing path from the back of his neck to the bottom of his spine. 

“Name all of your books for me,” Crowley said after a moment of quiet, causing Aziraphale to blink in confusion. 

“Sorry?” 

“Your books, in your bookshop,” Crowley repeated. “You know the names of them all, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. They’re _my_ books,” Aziraphale said, conveniently forgetting that, actually, he was supposed to be selling them to other people.

“Then list them off for me. Alphabetically, by author,” Crowley added.

Aziraphale frowned, trying to find the logic. “You think that will help me fall asleep?”

Crowley shrugged. “It might.”

“I’d be talking. You can’t fall asleep if you’re talking,” Aziraphale argued.

“Then prove me wrong,” Crowley said.

So Aziraphale took a deep breath in and started to recite. Soon his eyes began feeling strangely hard to open, and when he finally did accomplish that difficult task, he found Crowley in the same position, watching him in the dark, hand still stroking his back.

“This must be terribly dull for you,” Aziraphale commented.

“I promise you it’s not,” Crowley answered.

Aziraphale meant to answer, but he realized that his eyes had closed again without his permission. He peeled them open and said in confusion, “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten where I left off.”

Crowley’s mouth tilted into a half-smile, barely visible in the darkened room, and he replied, “Brontë.”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale said. “First there’s...Charlotte…”

“Anne,” Crowley corrected gently.

“Quite right,” Aziraphale said. “How silly of me. Anne. So, let’s see, that’s _Agnes_... _Grey_...”

*

When Aziraphale blinked awake, the first thing he noticed was the brightness of the room. The second thing was the fact that he was alone. He barely had time to wonder about that when Crowley came sauntering in the doorway, still in his pyjamas and drinking out of an oversized mug.

“Good morning, Aziraphale,” he said. 

“Morning already,” Aziraphale replied. He tried to get out of bed, but only managed so far as pushing himself to lean against the headboard with the blankets still tucked around his legs before giving it up as a hopeless task. “I can’t believe it. What time is it? How long was I asleep?”

“It’s a little after ten o’clock,” Crowley answered, and Aziraphale’s eyes widened. 

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale said. “I managed to - “

“And you’ve been asleep for six months,” Crowley continued, taking a sip from his mug and watching Aziraphale from over the rim.

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale gasped. 

Crowley gestured using the hand holding the mug, and Aziraphale turned around to see that the picture windows were frosted over and outside there were snowflakes swirling through the air.

“Wha…?” He rubbed his eyes and tried to will his brain back to life. “How…?”

“You’re just in time for Christmas,” Crowley said with an amused quirk of his lips. 

Aziraphale gaped at him for several seconds, unable to formulate words, until he finally managed, “How on Earth did I sleep for six months?”

The mug disappeared from Crowley’s hand, and he crawled sinuously into his side of the bed, mimicking Aziraphale’s position against the headboard. 

“Like I said, Hell hangover. It’s a nasty business. Well, that and the whole saving the world thing. How are you feeling?” 

Aziraphale stretched his arms above his head and wiggled his toes. All of the pain from yesterday... from _whenever_...was gone, replaced by a contented sort of buoyancy that suffused his whole body.

“ _Wonderful_ , now you mention it,” he answered. “Better than I’ve ever felt, in fact. There might be something to this sleeping business after all.”

“I told you to trust me,” Crowley said.

“I won’t doubt you again, my dear. What were you doing while I was...hibernating?” he asked sheepishly.

Crowley shrugged. “Slept too, mostly. Got up to take care of some odds and ends. Put a note in your shop window…”

“The bookshop!” Aziraphale cried.

“It’s fine,” Crowley assured him. “Checked in on the Anti-Christ to make sure he wasn’t getting any...ideas. Watered the plants. But mostly I stayed here.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, feeling his face heat up with a pleasant, happy sort of glow at the thought. “So sorry to make you do all the work.”

Crowley waved the apology away. “Buy me lunch.”

“Will do,” Aziraphale agreed. “Is this how you deal with your...hangovers, then? A nice, long rest?”

“Sometimes,” Crowley agreed. He paused for a minute and then added, “Mainly, I go and find you.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I see.” He lifted his hands and gave his fingers an expressive wiggle. “A little angelic love to cleanse the palette.”

“No,” Crowley said. “Not angelic love. Just the regular kind.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth and then closed it again. He took a deep breath and admitted, “Yes, that too.” And because he could pick up on these things when he wanted to, when he _let_ himself, the pieces fell into place. He reached out and put his hand on top of Crowley’s, unsurprised to find it cool to the touch, the way it always had been. “So that day, it wasn’t warmth I was feeling from you. It was your love.”

“Suppose it must have been,” Crowley answered.

“And I suppose, too, that the reason I’m so rejuvenated this morning isn’t just because of the nap. It’s because you’ve been here the whole time, helping me heal.”

Crowley looked awkward, but he still turned his hand over beneath Aziraphale’s so that their fingers entwined.

“It was mostly the nap,” he answered gruffly. 

Aziraphale beamed at him, half-expecting himself to start glowing with ethereal love.

Crowley made a face that only caused Aziraphale to grin harder. “Oh, shut up.”

“You really are quite lovely,” he said.

“Let’s...save that for special occasions,” Crowley muttered, not at all meaning it.

“All right,” Aziraphale agreed, not at all meaning it back. 

“Are you ready to get up?” Crowley asked him.

Aziraphale thought about it. He hadn’t eaten in six months. The poor waiter at the Ritz probably thought he’d died given the state of him the last time he'd left. And despite the fact that he was sure Crowley took good care of his shop, he should still check in on it. But the sun would keep rising, and there’d be other days. They’d seen to that.

“Let’s stay here a little bit longer,” he decided.

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this blanket permission to use this story for any remix, podfic, translation, fanart or other transformative work you'd like, but please inform me, credit me and provide me any links so that I can include it in the notes. 
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theres-a-goldensky).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [To Rest My Weary Soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19795642) by [FayJay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayJay/pseuds/FayJay)




End file.
